


Until Dawn

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-07
Updated: 2008-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demons, rock salt, holy water, and beer. Just another father and son road trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: This references events that took place in [Long Past Dark](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/58537.html), but can be read on its own. Many thanks to [](http://luzdeestrellas.livejournal.com/profile)[**luzdeestrellas**](http://luzdeestrellas.livejournal.com/) for the insightful beta comments.

  
May, 2002

Yeah, Dean should've known. Things always came back to bite you in the ass.

The sky through the windows of the diner was a confused muddle of dark gray clouds and patches of sun, wind kicking up debris, dust, and pieces of roadside trash. Dean didn't like the weather; it made his skin itch.

"Should be able to make St. Louis by tomorrow." Dad took another sip of coffee without raising his eyes from his journal. He turned a page over and wrote a note sideways along the margin; the page was too full to write anywhere else.

Dean kind of liked this almost leisurely pace they'd been keeping since they'd busted a poltergeist in Idaho. All that waited for them in St. Louis was a rare bookstore with a book Dad wanted. They'd left Dad's truck at Bobby's for a tune-up, and so it was the two of them in the Impala, days filled with the curving of back roads, the leanness of highways, Dad humming along to his 60's rock until Dean invoked the family rule about who got to pick the music.

Since Dad had made the rule up in the first place, he couldn't very well refuse. He did subject Dean to a lecture on the superiority of Creedence Clearwater Revival over Motorhead, though.

The place they stopped for dinner was the kind of place where "well done" meant a charred disk of meat, and there were bits of something unidentifiable floating in the water glasses. Not that they were picky about stuff like that because, hey, food was food.

"Next stop, I'm picking where we eat," Dean said, taking the last bite of his grilled cheese, which at least was edible and only burned a little near the edges of the crust.

Dad looked up at Dean with put-on innocence, "Why, what's wrong with this place?" With a slow, deliberate movement Dad shoved half a piece of charred toast into his mouth and crunched loudly. He smiled before he turned his gaze back down to the journal. "I've had worse."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Remember the old rhyme about the guy who found a mouse in his soup?"

"Oh, dude, that's disgusting." Dean pushed his plate away, glad to play along, to see his father in one of his lighter moods. Not like he was actually freaked out at the thought of a dead mouse in his food or anything. "I think they burned my coffee, too," he muttered. "I think they burned the _water_ they used in my coffee. Yeah, you bet I'm picking next time."

"You're on," Dad said, still looking down at the page. He wrote another note. "Food had better be real good, Dean." Then he put down his pen. "Go on ahead out to the car. I want you to check our ammo level before we hit the road again."

"Just checked it two days ago."

"Well, check it again," Dad said, with the patient voice that Dean knew meant he was a heartbeat away from not being patient any more. Dad lifted his arm, signaled the waitress. "I'll be out in a second."

Dean slid out of the booth. The waitress gave him a smile that suddenly erased some of the lines in her face, and he let himself get a good look at her long legs again before he winked at her and pushed through the door. Hey, it wasn't her fault the food in the place sucked. He hoped Dad would leave a good tip.

The wind grabbed at him, blowing grit into his eyes as he crossed the gravel parking lot. Fields stretched far in either direction, broken by the occasional electrical tower or patch of woods or farmhouse, wide sky above looking like it was about to break open and rain frogs.

He had his hand on the Impala's trunk when they appeared. Well, only one at first; Dean blinked, and the empty space in front of the Impala suddenly had a robed figure standing in it.

Dean startled, hand going for his gun, and then there was one of them on his right, too. Tall, robed, flash of dark green skin beneath the cloth.

And then there was one on his left.

 _Shit._

He pulled his .45, took aim at the one standing in front of the Impala, planning to fake them out, turn at the last second and shoot the one on his right, but it turned out there was one behind him, too.

 _Double shit._

Strong hands grabbed his biceps, pinioning his arms to his sides so he couldn't raise the gun. Dean let loose a backwards head-butt, felt the jolt through his teeth as he hit something hard, but the scaly fingers didn't lessen their grip, digging in, hurting even through his leather jacket, flannel, and thermals.

So he hunched down, pivoting, used the one holding him as leverage to kick at the one on his left. He felt the sole of his boot make contact and the creature staggered back.

That was when the one on the right leapt at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the one from the front of the car coming closer as the one he'd kicked recovered and moved back in. Not a problem, he could totally take them, he could totally – the breath left his body in a rush as one of them socked him in the stomach.

It was about then he wondered where Dad was, and if he'd seen what was going on in the parking lot.

A second later he felt one of the creatures yanked off of him, heard a thud and a grunt.

That gave Dean enough room to move. He got an arm free, snapped a back-handed punch to the one behind him, let loose with a spin kick to the one on his left.

All four demons were down, but still conscious, kneeling or sprawled on the gravel, their brown robes spread like spilled coffee. Curious faces stared out the diner windows, and appeared in the door.

The four demons vanished, the air rippling.

"Jesus fuck, Dean," Dad said, grabbing him. He wrenched the passenger door open, shoved Dean in, then ran around and got in behind the wheel.

The car's engine rumbled into life while Dean gasped for breath. "I had it under control," he got out.

"Sure," said Dad, voice calm as they pulled out onto the highway. "Letting them pile on you like that was your plan to lull them into a false sense of security before you kicked the crap out of them."

"Something like that, yeah." Dean turned to look out the rear window; all he saw was the lonely diner, no robed figures in sight.

"Any idea what those things were?"

"Demons, lower caste. Stuck in a permanent form." Dean pressed his fingers against the dashboard.

"How do you know that?" Dad's voice was sharp.

Dean took a long, slow breath. "Because I recognized them."

There was a weighted quiet broken only by the rumble of the engine. Dean watched the scenery flash by and kept himself from hunching his shoulders while he waited for the explosion.

"You recognized them," Dad said. Dean risked a glance over at Dad and saw his fingers clenching around the steering wheel, rubbing back and forth. "Recognized them how?"

"It was a hunt I did on my own." For something to do, Dean checked the chamber of his .45, noted it was full, and snapped it shut again.

Now Dad was tapping his thumbs against the wheel. "They were gunning for you," he said, a statement not a question.

"Guess so."

"You must've pissed them off pretty bad."

"Yeah."

"All right." Dad's voice sounded mild enough, but then he slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder, stopped. The engine rumbled at idle as Dad turned in his seat with a creak of upholstery. "Cut the bullshit, Dean. I'm not playing fuckin' twenty questions with you. You tell me what happened with them, why they want to waste your ass, and why you didn't mention this to me earlier." Dad's finger jabbed the air, punctuating each sentence.

Dean breathed in and out. Yeah, this one had been just waiting to bite him in the ass, and bite him hard.

Dad lowered his hand, curled his fingers into a fist against the steering wheel. Cars rushed by them.

"It was ghouls in Dayton, while you and Caleb were off hunting Bunyips. Only one of these demons, it was after the ghouls too. And me." Dean kept his eyes out the front windshield, which faced a large billboard for a new action flick. "It also captured a roc and a cerberus. Wanted to use us all in some weird ritual thing. The thing knocked me out, took all my weapons, my lock pick, even my friggin' shoes." Shit, it was embarrassing telling Dad all that. Dean shook off the memory of manacles around his wrists, a dank basement, the smells and noises in the darkness. "It was about a second from slitting my throat when I killed it with its own sword."

"You kept the sword."

"Kind of, yeah," Dean said. "Well, it was a really good sword," he added hastily, seeing Dad's eyebrows rise. "Old, great craftsmanship, and I figured why not—"

"You didn't think to mention this to me?" Dad's voice rose a fraction.

Crap, here it came.

"I didn't think it was important," Dean said, and inwardly cringed at how lame that sounded.

With a creak, Dad had his door open. "Show me," he ordered, stepping out of the car. He bent and peered back in, fixed Dean with a hard glare.

Dean opened his door and stepped out into the wind. Cold spatters of drizzle hit his face and the back of his hands, beaded on the Impala's paint job. He popped the trunk, propped the false bottom up with the sawed-off shotgun.

The sword was wrapped in a stained t-shirt, inside a duffel bag that had seen better days, shoved as far back as it could go in the hollow storage space beneath the weapons. He unwrapped the sword and put it into his father's sure hand.

Dad hefted it, sighted down the blade, traced his thumb over the markings. "It has ritual significance," he said, handing it back to Dean. "This wasn't just some weapon." He turned, squinted off towards the horizon the way they'd come, where the road dipped down out of sight. "They want it back. Also," Dad said over his shoulder, headed back towards the driver's side door, "they're probably PO'd at you for killing one of their own."

Dean re-wrapped the sword and put it away, telling himself the uncomfortable leaden feeling in his stomach was because of his charred dinner, not because a pack of lower demons wanted his entrails on a platter.

"Uh, so what now?" Dean said, as Dad started up the engine.

"Demons are excellent trackers. They found you once, they'll find you again." Dad's jaw tightened as he pulled the Impala back onto the highway.

The windshield wipers swished back and forth. Dad had gone quiet, not the closed-off, terrible silences of that past fall, but the kind of sneaky quiet that fell over him sometimes when he was thinking hard. Dean's fingers twitched, wanting to turn on the radio or a mix tape, needing the noise, the familiar rhythms, and not daring.

He snuck a sideways glance at his father and saw the tension in his shoulders relax a fraction as the car moved into the right lane. An exit loomed ahead of them, the visibility of the sign smeared by raindrops on the windshield but still legible.

"We've got work to do," Dad said, flat and decisive, no arguments.

Dean felt the lead weight in his stomach lessen.

~*~

The plan so far involved a trip to a camping store to buy canvas, twine, and pulleys; a hardware store to buy several hundred pounds of rock salt and some kerosene; and a phone call to some old hunter friend of Dad's.

They worked until sunset, then kept working by flashlight, up on the roof of the small abandoned cabin. Dad hooked his fingers through the belt-loops of Dean's jeans as Dean lay on his stomach and reached down to tie the canvas in place under the eaves. It wasn't raining this far north, but the air was damp and cool.

Between the trees, Dean saw the glimmer of the lake, dim without starlight or moonlight.

Just another father and son road trip, sure. Hell, maybe they'd go fishing in the lake tomorrow – there was equipment to rent down at the main dock. After they killed a bunch of demons.

"Okay, I think we're set." Dad tugged Dean back up, then scooted himself from the edge of the roof, heel of his boots dislodging a chip of tile. He smacked Dean on the leg. "Gather up that extra twine."

"Now what?" Dean asked, as he held the ladder steady from above and watched the top of Dad's head as he descended.

Dad looked up at him, and smiled his slow, take-no-prisoners smile, verging on predatory in the glow of Dean's flashlight. "Now, we wait for them to find you."

~*~

The sword lay on the table, looking ordinary under the plain glare of the ceiling light. The cabin was one room, smelling of cedar and fish and damp wood. There was nothing else left except the table and chairs.

At least his food situation had improved; Dean had managed to pick up a six-pack of beer, a couple of bags of potato chips, and a bag of oreo cookies to get them through the night. Dean munched on chips and watched Dad's fingers move in quick, small motions as he sketched the sword into his journal.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't told Dad about the sword, why it mattered so much to him that it be _his_ and not become part of a catalogue of lore.

"I admit it, it was dumb not to tell you." Dean grabbed another handful of chips and stuffed them in his mouth. He couldn't quite manage to get to _I'm sorry_.

After finishing off the sketch, Dad reached for his beer. He took a few swallows, then put the bottle down next to the sword's hilt and gave Dean a long glance before his gaze went back down to the beer bottle. "So…that demon you went up against by yourself, it took all your weapons, even your shoes, and you still managed to kill it, huh?"

"Yeah." Dean grabbed another potato chip, the crinkling of the bag loud in the quiet.

Dad's head jerked in a nod before he lifted his beer bottle and tilted the neck in Dean's direction; it took a moment for him to realize it was a salute, and then he felt a sudden flush of pride.

"Cerberus slobber?" Dad said, tracing his finger along the pommel of the sword.

"So disgusting, man."

~*~

"A haunted what?"

"Soup tureen. Member of Pastor Jim's congregation, all unknowing, bought it at a thrift store. You couldn’t have been more'n five, probably don't remember the family inviting us over for dinner. This disembodied hand –" Dad lifted his arm and demonstrated, sliding his hand down his jacket sleeve as he raised his hand towards the ceiling "—rose up out of the minestrone." His mouth twitched, then broke into a grin. "Never heard Jim yell so loud, before or since."

"Haunted soup tureen!" Dean whooped, and leaned back in his chair. It felt good to laugh again, to have Dad telling stories – Dad was a great storyteller and Dean was pretty sure this one hadn't been told before. _Haunted soup tureen_ , that was awesome. He'd have to tell Sam, even if all he got when he called was voicemail again. "So what'd you do?"

"Grabbed the table salt, drove it back. The family was a bit upset. But Sammy slept right through it in his baby carrier, and you watched the whole thing, your eyes bigger than dinner plates, never made a sound." Dad laughed, shaking his head. "Jim said you had nerves of steel. Then me and Jim purified the tureen, traced its ownership history, and salted and burned the remains of the original owner."

"You want some more beer?" Dean started to gather up the empty bottles, and a moment later realized Dad had said Sam's name without it sounding forced, without a circle of hurt around it. Just, regular, as if Sam'd be home for a visit next weekend like in any normal family.

"No, I'm good," said Dad, tucking his journal away into his knapsack.

Dean put the bottles into the sink. When he went by the open window, he heard the night insects singing loud in the trees.

When they stopped, the quiet was a weight, pressing against his ears.

Dad was on his feet. "It's show time." He scooped up his bag and shotgun, then moved to stand with his back against the cabin wall, where a string ran down through the open window from the roof. Looping the string around his fingers, he nodded at Dean, flicked his fingers downward.

Dean had his arms folded and a smirk firmly in place when the door banged open and the four demons walked in. He could've sworn he heard a rumble of thunder behind them. Demons were always so friggin' dramatic.

The sword lay exposed on the table next to the oreos and the half-crumpled cheerful yellow of the potato chip bags

"Hey, fellas! How's it hangin'?"

Their steps were light on the wood floors as they moved to surround him, hoods of their robes covering the inhuman faces.

Dean grinned widely as the demons reached for the sword. "You want some cookies? Sheesh, you guys could ask instead of just grabbing." He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. "Tsk."

"Dean, now!" Dad shouted, and that's when he flung holy water over them, out of a half-gallon milk carton that had been waiting, already in place beside the door.

The demons reeled back, hissing and smoking. Dean snatched the sword and leapt for the door while Dad pulled the string and darted out after Dean. There was the squeak of pulleys as the canvas rolls opened, letting loose a shower of salt that fell like hail all around the cabin.

In the cabin, the demons ran at the door, and then staggered back as they hit an invisible barrier. Through the open door, Dean saw the demons run towards another wall, with the same result.

Dad hefted the jug of kerosene, signaled for Dean to follow as he walked around the cabin, dousing the walls.

Dean lit the match and threw it at the cabin. As the flames spread, the demons inside shrieked on a note that made him flinch, the hairs on the back of his arms and neck standing on end, but Dad didn't so much as twitch.

He and Dad had already removed as much brush as they could; they sat down on a boulder to watch and make sure the fire didn't spread to the trees at the edge of the clearing.

They waited until dawn, when the fire was down to a smolder.

"What if there's more of them?" Dean asked, as the wisps of smoke merged with the mist curling off the lake.

"We'll deal with it."

An hour later they were back on the road to St. Louis. They didn't go fishing – but Dad, who was driving, let Dean pick the music for the first hundred miles.

~end  



End file.
